


you can take your burning gold (you can take your swords and spears)

by Raven (singlecrow)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-19 16:20:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19136278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlecrow/pseuds/Raven
Summary: They do not have sex while in each other's bodies.





	you can take your burning gold (you can take your swords and spears)

**Author's Note:**

> The Good Omens folder on my hard drive had not been modified since April 2003. ilu, soupytwist.

They do not have sex while in each other’s bodies. Crowley thinks about it. Aziraphale watches him think about it. It’s a long thought. Aziraphale waits for it to complete its passage, with its hopeful entourage of other thoughts about blindfolds and honey and other things Crowley has seen on the internet, and says, “I am so tired of _complicated_.”

Instead, they do it the way they always do, in Aziraphale’s bed in his rooms over the bookshop. Not in Crowley’s flat, because Aziraphale gets distracted by the plants. It’s intense, quick, good. They’ve had thousands of years of practice. When that’s done, they miracle the sheets clean and make use of the large, deep, cast iron bathtub. It has claw feet (Aziraphale), gleaming chrome taps (Crowley) and an endless supply of hot water (both of them).

“Honey production isn’t good for bees,” Aziraphale remarks, watching the rubber duck bob gently in the water. It used to be cheery yellow and orange. It still is, but with dark rubber sunglasses. It bobs. 

“What?” Crowley says.

“What you were thinking about, before,” Aziraphale says, gesturing with one hand and starting a small tsunami with the other. “Golden syrup would have been more, ah. Virtuous.”

“Shut up, angel,” Crowley says. He wonders if Aziraphale was afraid, fully exposed behind that pane of glass, in sight of every ninth-circle demon of hell. He reheats the water and gives the duck a quiff.

*

They’re not so much with the tempting, these days. Or the minor miracles. 

Still. Aziraphale never seems to pay his gas bill. Crowley’s rent never falls due. The man who runs the ironmonger’s across the road from the bookshop, who’s cheating on his eight-months-pregnant wife with a couple he met through his line-dancing class, gets called for jury service. His car fails its MOT, his preferred brand of porridge oats is discontinued, and his upstairs neighbour takes up the tuba. 

(Crowley considers an unfortunate chilli-oil-anal-lubricant mix-up, but Aziraphale puts his foot down.)

Anathema’s application for indefinite leave to remain is approved, with just two requests for further documentation.

*

They’re invited to the wedding. It’s in a country house venue, which normally prides itself on being very Instagram-friendly – they have teapots on the tables and crossed swords on the walls – but the guests are mostly from Tadfield and don’t understand why you would _need_ an Instagram filter, and anyway, it’s an unplugged ceremony. People taking pictures of him on their phones makes Newt nervous and Newt getting nervous makes people’s phones explode. 

It’s also a _civil_ ceremony. 

“Not to worry,” Aziraphale assures the other guests, none of whom are worried, “it’s very normal these days.”

It’s specifically for Aziraphale and Crowley’s benefit. God has agents in Her houses, and Crowley just doesn’t want to have to hop through the proceedings. Afterwards, they toast the happy couple with some very good wine and move in a not wholly arrhythmic manner to the music.

(It’s still not _dancing_. Aziraphale defied the Great Plan, but some things are ineffable.)

“Glad the world didn’t end,” Crowley says, into Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

Aziraphale can’t tell if it’s a question or a statement or half of an imperative. He shifts slightly in Crowley’s hold, aware he’s being watched. Adam, Wensleydale and Brian have gone off to hide in a corner, complaining about all the smushy stuff. It’s not clear if that’s the wedding cake icing that they’re covered in or their parents dancing to Frank Sinatra.

But Pepper is standing at the edge of the dancefloor, staring at Crowley and Aziraphale as though understanding is blooming in her like a flower. Aziraphale thinks about what she said about _casual sexism_ and _masculine imperialism_. He makes a mental note of some books the shop should stock.

“Yes,” he says, to Crowley. “Always.”

*

The party breaks up at the witching hour. On their way out, Aziraphale takes one of the ornamental swords off the wall and passes it lightly from hand to hand. The hilt spins in his palm, and the tip describes a figure of eight in mid-air. 

“ _Wicked_ ,” Adam says, with his preternatural ability to be present when anyone does anything remotely out of the ordinary, and gets hustled off by his parents.

“Huh,” Crowley says, through the last shrimp canapé. “That _is_ almost cool, angel, how do you know how to—“

Aziraphale inclines his head.

“Oh,” Crowley says. “Ah. Yeah.”

“Quite,” Aziraphale says. He puts the sword back where it was. Crowley takes his hand and leads him out into the night. They could just teleport themselves home, but Crowley’s Bentley is right there and won’t lead to half-drunk-angel materialisation accidents.

“Don’t change the music,” he tells Aziraphale, who wouldn’t know how. “Don’t fall asleep, either, I’m not driving all that way with no one to talk to.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Aziraphale says, and does. Between waking and sleeping is a holy transition. Crowley gets a momentary face-full of wing, swears and reconciles himself to it. He’s thinking about how Aziraphale’s own sword is still out there in the world. One day they’ll take up arms again. In the meantime, they’re doing all right.


End file.
